(Sorry I am so far behind with posting! This goes back a few weeks.)
My oh my. It seems as if it was only a couple of weeks ago that the kids used to go to school.
Oh yeah. It was.
School’s out and now we are playing a 68-day game of “Let’s hang with Mommy!” Mommy works from home. Rather, Mommy “tries” to work from home. How’s that going for Mommy, anyway?
Well, let’s just say it’s...interesting.
Back when I was really new at this Mommy thing, I used to read lots of blogs about and by WAHMs – Work At Home Moms (as opposed to SAHMs – Stay At Home Moms) about the challenges and rewards of working from home. My mom was a SAHM. Probably I will never truly understand how great it was to have a mom waiting for us every day after school because it is all I have ever known.
After my first baby was born, I remember hitting the six-week mark and being amazed by the fact that in the United States that is all the maternity leave some moms get. I wouldn’t have wanted to go back to work full time after six weeks.
Being self-employed, though, meant no maternity leave at all (at that time). Fortunately, I could modify and manage my schedule and work back into things. It wasn’t always easy (lots of evenings and weekends spent working while Dad was home). Even now, being a WAHM might mean I am physically present at home, but it also means the TV might be on more while Mommy “just has to do this one little thing.”
Grass is always greener, right? Parents who work away from home often wish they had more time with the kids, while some of us who work at home greet more time with a tinge of trepidation.
Fortunately, grandparents, babysitters, play dates and day camps are part of our lives.
This summer has been interesting so far – all 14 days or so of it. My kids are much more mobile this year – they’re older and they can visit neighbourhood friends without always needing Mommy in tow.
They also nap less (read: not at all) and go to bed later than they used to, which means less quiet time for Mommy. They have vast vocabularies, too, which they try out on each other and on me at various pitches and with varying degrees of success.
When the sibling rivalry or the boundary pushing goes a bit too far, then Mommy pulls out her Repertoire of Threats. (At this point I am picturing a large heavy book with gilded pages and gold-embossed lettering, complete with monks chanting instructions about the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch. Sorry. Monty Python hiccup there.)
Suffice it to say there is no book. All that’s really there is a sketchy assembly of threats tucked in my addled brain about cancelled play dates and computer prohibitions – but one has to be extraordinarily careful that one doesn’t threaten more than one can...er...chew.
After all, one of the Golden Rules of Parenting, aside from giving instructions about not running with scissors (which I actually had to do just the other day), is to follow through. You threaten, you make it so.
Another Golden Rule (there should be a gold-embossed instruction manual with every child) is to be consistent, and that doesn’t mean you should consistently present empty threats. You do that too many times and you just might need the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch after all (what IS this woman babbling about?).
Since school ended (did I mention it was about 14 days ago), I have found myself reaching repeatedly into my repertoire to try to remember the name of the, ahem, summer camp I threatened to send the kids to last year when the going got occasionally tough. I checked a column from about this time last year and there it was: Lost Harbour Summer School and Military Camp.
Lost Harbour (tee hee!) is a magical, faraway place where kids stay for many weeks and where the program consists of four hours of school each day followed by marching and building walls out of heavy rocks.
I haven’t had to play that oh-so-believable (ha!) card yet, but it’s early, and there are still some work deadlines to navigate before Sept. 6.
Published in The Perth Courier, July 14/11
Friday, August 5, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
Past Deadline: Perth Kilt Run - Check!
On the day of the Perth Kilt Run, I zipped around the house like a kernel of popcorn meeting hot oil. (Remember this analogy when I talk about the weather later.)
I didn’t know what to do with myself – how to bridle all that anticipation. I’ve heard that if an actor doesn’t feel nervous before a show, he or she may not perform as well. I wondered if the same would be true for running. I was excited, but not nervous.
The heat? I had trained for it (I thought). The distance? Can do. The rumoured hills in the golf course portion of the run? Too late to worry about that now.
Even my wardrobe concerns had been quelled. I picked up my race kit in the morning and very nearly wept with joy to find not only had I overestimated my size – so no emergency alterations required – but the kilt came with Velcro at the waist. An adjustable kilt with a pocket for my iPod. Awesome!
I’d purchased a “black goes with everything” shirt earlier in the week (although navy would have looked better with this tartan), so I had that squared away. The fact that black can be warmish in the sun crossed my mind, but I was prepared to make this sacrifice for, um, fashion, especially when kilts are oh-so-slimming. Not. Ahem.
The iPod was charged, the turtle earrings were donned to remind me to pace myself and I was germ free.
Bring it.
All that was left to worry about, I thought, was the mental game. When I speak to my Algonquin classes about doing oral presentations, which most of them despise, I tell students to try to turn distress into anticipation. Visualize yourself completing the job – like a figure skater finishing a successful routine. So I tried it. I could see myself crossing the finish line – plodding along slow and steady as a turtle, but also alive and smiling like Esther Williams.
I talked to my mom in the afternoon – she who had been captain of almost every sports team in high school. Her daughter? Not so much. Okay, not at all. She gushed about how she had waited 40 years to see me run. Sad, but true. I wish I had done this 40 pounds ago, but oh well.
And then it was finally time to run.
The sun beamed down onto the stone buildings, the pavement and my black shirt.
It was hot.
It was very hot.
Popcorn-popping and egg-frying hot.
As we shuffled toward the starting line I tried to pretend I was at the beach, but that just made me want to go swimming instead.
Bang!
We started off at a good pace. In that heat, it was easy to plod like a turtle.
It was a tough run.
I had to drink more water than I like to and I walked a few times to stop my head from spinning. I’ve never felt dizzy while running before but, then again, I usually don’t run while wearing a kilt and shorts. I wasn’t as prepared for the heat as I had thought, and this made the mental game harder. Still, I managed to fight off the intensely strong desire to simply stop at the 18th hole and sit in the river.
Every time I run I’m ready to go home at 5K, so the 4- to 7K stretch through the slightly hilly golf course felt long, and that’s when the dizzies kicked in.
Nevertheless, I did it. I made it just under the target I had set for myself, coming in at about three quarters of the way through the pack and my age group. Not bad for a first time. There are even pictures of me smiling and waving and looking happy (not in the golf course, though).
Thanks to all the volunteers, organizers and fellow runners for making this a phenomenal event. It was a great experience and fun seeing old friends. Thanks also to the wonderful folks who lined the streets to cheer us on – that was awesome!
Like childbirth, though, you should probably wait a while before you ask me if I am going to do it again.
Published in The Perth Courier, July 7/11
I didn’t know what to do with myself – how to bridle all that anticipation. I’ve heard that if an actor doesn’t feel nervous before a show, he or she may not perform as well. I wondered if the same would be true for running. I was excited, but not nervous.
The heat? I had trained for it (I thought). The distance? Can do. The rumoured hills in the golf course portion of the run? Too late to worry about that now.
Even my wardrobe concerns had been quelled. I picked up my race kit in the morning and very nearly wept with joy to find not only had I overestimated my size – so no emergency alterations required – but the kilt came with Velcro at the waist. An adjustable kilt with a pocket for my iPod. Awesome!
I’d purchased a “black goes with everything” shirt earlier in the week (although navy would have looked better with this tartan), so I had that squared away. The fact that black can be warmish in the sun crossed my mind, but I was prepared to make this sacrifice for, um, fashion, especially when kilts are oh-so-slimming. Not. Ahem.
The iPod was charged, the turtle earrings were donned to remind me to pace myself and I was germ free.
Bring it.
All that was left to worry about, I thought, was the mental game. When I speak to my Algonquin classes about doing oral presentations, which most of them despise, I tell students to try to turn distress into anticipation. Visualize yourself completing the job – like a figure skater finishing a successful routine. So I tried it. I could see myself crossing the finish line – plodding along slow and steady as a turtle, but also alive and smiling like Esther Williams.
I talked to my mom in the afternoon – she who had been captain of almost every sports team in high school. Her daughter? Not so much. Okay, not at all. She gushed about how she had waited 40 years to see me run. Sad, but true. I wish I had done this 40 pounds ago, but oh well.
And then it was finally time to run.
The sun beamed down onto the stone buildings, the pavement and my black shirt.
It was hot.
It was very hot.
Popcorn-popping and egg-frying hot.
As we shuffled toward the starting line I tried to pretend I was at the beach, but that just made me want to go swimming instead.
Bang!
We started off at a good pace. In that heat, it was easy to plod like a turtle.
It was a tough run.
I had to drink more water than I like to and I walked a few times to stop my head from spinning. I’ve never felt dizzy while running before but, then again, I usually don’t run while wearing a kilt and shorts. I wasn’t as prepared for the heat as I had thought, and this made the mental game harder. Still, I managed to fight off the intensely strong desire to simply stop at the 18th hole and sit in the river.
Every time I run I’m ready to go home at 5K, so the 4- to 7K stretch through the slightly hilly golf course felt long, and that’s when the dizzies kicked in.
Nevertheless, I did it. I made it just under the target I had set for myself, coming in at about three quarters of the way through the pack and my age group. Not bad for a first time. There are even pictures of me smiling and waving and looking happy (not in the golf course, though).
Thanks to all the volunteers, organizers and fellow runners for making this a phenomenal event. It was a great experience and fun seeing old friends. Thanks also to the wonderful folks who lined the streets to cheer us on – that was awesome!
Like childbirth, though, you should probably wait a while before you ask me if I am going to do it again.
Published in The Perth Courier, July 7/11
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Past Deadline: Esther Williams of Running
I’ve got running on the brain. Sorry.
This is because I have signed up for my Very First Race Ever – the Perth Kilt Run on July 2 – and it is mere days away.
On one hand I suppose it’s kind of neato that I’m doing this four decades in, but on the other hand, sometimes it feels about two decades too late.
Recently I wrote about things I have learned on my almost-two-year running journey. This covered topics such as, you know, not doing stupid stuff like eating a five-course meal immediately before running, not running while drunk and, of course, choosing water over coffee on a running day (caffeine is not necessarily going to make you run like the Energizer Bunny).
Yes, it took me two years to learn stuff like that. Sigh.
Now, however, as the Kilt Run creeps closer and closer, I have new concerns. You’d think one of them might be about the 8K (5-mile) distance, but I have trained and I can do it. I don’t necessarily enjoy it, though. I’m ready to go home after 5K, and those last three are laborious – not glorious.
Nevertheless, I have learned to pace myself. It’s a race – but not. I am going to wear my turtle earrings on Saturday to remind me that “slow and steady...um...finishes/survives the race.”
One of my big worries is about the kilt itself. I ordered it months ago. What if it doesn’t fit? How will I fix it in time? If it’s too big I’m sure an elaborate arrangement of safety pins and/or a belt might do the trick, but I suspect that is unlikely to be the problem. If it’s too small, do I go at it with scissors and elastic bands? Call a seamstress hotline? Can my dad fix it? (I know my mom would just laugh about sewing.) Will a tantrum do the trick? Should I just weep in a corner?
Similarly, what to do about a shirt? What if it doesn’t match my kilt? I mean, I’ve looked at the tartan online, but sometimes a screen doesn’t do the real thing justice. I hope basic black will do the trick.
Also, will I get trampled by the 900 people who will finish ahead of me or should I just start at the very back and try to work my way forward?
Another concern relates back to the enjoyment factor. When I run, I would like to look as if I’m liking it at least a little bit because, you know, there is this giant spotlight following me around to single me out of the thousand other runners. People will say, “Nice girl, but she doesn’t seem very happy.” Perhaps I have some sort of latent wish to be the Esther Williams of running – always smiling and waving – except maybe not underwater so much.
Speaking of self-absorbed, I am also a bit of a solo runner. I like to crank up the tunes and think Deep Thoughts™ (snort!) while I run. When accompanied by 1,000 other people, though, it occurs to me that someone might want to talk, and that will make me lose my breath. I’m considering wearing a T-shirt (a black one? a green one? an orange one?) that reads: “There will be no talking or chit chat of any kind, only Esther Williams-style smiling.” In case I can’t decide on the colour in time to get it printed, though, I just want everyone to know that if I don’t talk to you, it’s not because I don’t love you, it’s just that it might kill me.
Oh, and another thing – germs. We have done our bit to maintain the world’s germ pool this spring, but it would be just my luck to be afflicted before my Very First Race Ever. If that happens, I am moving to a remote island with a bottle of Lysol for the summer. Actually, I might do that anyway.
Clearly, the things that are concerning me now about the race are, well, not really related to running at all.
With any luck, next week I will be able to tell you about the actual experience! (“Yes,” the readers grumble, “with any luck.”)
Published in The Perth Courier, June 30/11
This is because I have signed up for my Very First Race Ever – the Perth Kilt Run on July 2 – and it is mere days away.
On one hand I suppose it’s kind of neato that I’m doing this four decades in, but on the other hand, sometimes it feels about two decades too late.
Recently I wrote about things I have learned on my almost-two-year running journey. This covered topics such as, you know, not doing stupid stuff like eating a five-course meal immediately before running, not running while drunk and, of course, choosing water over coffee on a running day (caffeine is not necessarily going to make you run like the Energizer Bunny).
Yes, it took me two years to learn stuff like that. Sigh.
Now, however, as the Kilt Run creeps closer and closer, I have new concerns. You’d think one of them might be about the 8K (5-mile) distance, but I have trained and I can do it. I don’t necessarily enjoy it, though. I’m ready to go home after 5K, and those last three are laborious – not glorious.
Nevertheless, I have learned to pace myself. It’s a race – but not. I am going to wear my turtle earrings on Saturday to remind me that “slow and steady...um...finishes/survives the race.”
One of my big worries is about the kilt itself. I ordered it months ago. What if it doesn’t fit? How will I fix it in time? If it’s too big I’m sure an elaborate arrangement of safety pins and/or a belt might do the trick, but I suspect that is unlikely to be the problem. If it’s too small, do I go at it with scissors and elastic bands? Call a seamstress hotline? Can my dad fix it? (I know my mom would just laugh about sewing.) Will a tantrum do the trick? Should I just weep in a corner?
Similarly, what to do about a shirt? What if it doesn’t match my kilt? I mean, I’ve looked at the tartan online, but sometimes a screen doesn’t do the real thing justice. I hope basic black will do the trick.
Also, will I get trampled by the 900 people who will finish ahead of me or should I just start at the very back and try to work my way forward?
Another concern relates back to the enjoyment factor. When I run, I would like to look as if I’m liking it at least a little bit because, you know, there is this giant spotlight following me around to single me out of the thousand other runners. People will say, “Nice girl, but she doesn’t seem very happy.” Perhaps I have some sort of latent wish to be the Esther Williams of running – always smiling and waving – except maybe not underwater so much.
Speaking of self-absorbed, I am also a bit of a solo runner. I like to crank up the tunes and think Deep Thoughts™ (snort!) while I run. When accompanied by 1,000 other people, though, it occurs to me that someone might want to talk, and that will make me lose my breath. I’m considering wearing a T-shirt (a black one? a green one? an orange one?) that reads: “There will be no talking or chit chat of any kind, only Esther Williams-style smiling.” In case I can’t decide on the colour in time to get it printed, though, I just want everyone to know that if I don’t talk to you, it’s not because I don’t love you, it’s just that it might kill me.
Oh, and another thing – germs. We have done our bit to maintain the world’s germ pool this spring, but it would be just my luck to be afflicted before my Very First Race Ever. If that happens, I am moving to a remote island with a bottle of Lysol for the summer. Actually, I might do that anyway.
Clearly, the things that are concerning me now about the race are, well, not really related to running at all.
With any luck, next week I will be able to tell you about the actual experience! (“Yes,” the readers grumble, “with any luck.”)
Published in The Perth Courier, June 30/11
Friday, June 24, 2011
Past Deadline: Get-Offa-My-Lawn!
The morning after Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final, Boychild asked who won.
“Boston,” I said, somewhat solemnly.
“Oh.” He had been rooting for Vancouver, but he didn’t appear heartbroken. Don’t tell anyone, but our family regards hockey with somewhat distant affection. It makes us a little odd, I guess. (Yes, we are all Canadian born.)
“And you know what?” I said, unable to contain my disgust. “After the game, a whole bunch of idiots came out and rioted in Vancouver.” I explained how they smashed windows and set fire to cars and that several people got hurt.
Boychild didn’t say much, but looked pensive. He didn’t have the benefit of watching the compelling coverage of the unfolding mayhem on the late news the night before.
Later that day, as I walked down Wilson Street to meet the kids after school, I noticed the landscapers had returned to replace some of the private cement walkways in front of a few homes. The forms were still in place and the cement still looked dark and wet. There were no workers in sight.
There is something about wet cement that triggers a primal urge, don’t you find? Doesn’t it make you want to draw pictures or carve your initials or leave your mark somehow? Well, that’s what I was thinking as I escorted a small throng of little boys and one Girlchild back along the same route, questioning the wisdom of leaving unattended cement along a school zone.
I stood at the end of one walkway as my entourage passed, with no mishaps to report. Right behind them were four older boys. I continued walking, casting a glance over my shoulder, and sure enough they had stopped right in the danger zone and looked as if they were about to leave a legacy behind.
“Hey!” I hollered, startling my troops. “Leave that alone!” And they did.
“Mom!” Boychild scolded. “What are you doing? You don’t even know those boys!”
“So?” I said. “They were about to damage someone’s property, and I wasn’t going to stand by and let them do it.” (Yes, I know. Next I’ll be standing on my front porch shrieking, “Hey-you-kids-get-offa-my-lawn!”)
“But you’re not the boss of them!” Boychild insisted.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “When you see someone about to do something wrong, you should speak up.”
I don’t think the message really resonated until later that day when the stories about the riots were recapped on the 6 o’clock news. “Look,” I said to Boychild. “Come and see what these people did in Vancouver.”
He watched with rapt attention. “Those cars that are burning,” I said, “belong to people like us. What if someone had set our car on fire? That’s why you have to speak up when you see people doing bad things.”
I know. Carving your initials in cement is not the same in scope as torching a car, but teaching respect for other people’s property has to start somewhere. And, yes, I realize that not every person who has carved his or her initials in a sidewalk ends up looting and pillaging and committing arson.
It does seem to come back to respect: for people – their feelings and their authority – and for property – their own and other people’s; not to mention taking responsibility for one’s actions. It’s easy to blame “mob mentality” for what happened in Vancouver, I suppose, but that seems awfully convenient when we all have our very own brains to tell us when we’re doing something bad.
After watching the coverage and seeing the flames and the injuries and the craziness of it all, we all agreed that, yes, it was bad.
Maybe it was about hockey and maybe it wasn’t – it depends on who you ask. Whether it all comes out in the wash or not remains to be seen, but is sure is a nasty stain.
Boychild didn’t comment on the part of the coverage that showed a man yelling at looters to stop. They then swarmed him and starting beating him. I hate the thought of having to explain that sometimes the “hey-you-kids-get-offa-my-lawn” approach doesn’t always end well.
Ah, parenting. Not for the weak.
Published in The Perth Courier, June 23/11
“Boston,” I said, somewhat solemnly.
“Oh.” He had been rooting for Vancouver, but he didn’t appear heartbroken. Don’t tell anyone, but our family regards hockey with somewhat distant affection. It makes us a little odd, I guess. (Yes, we are all Canadian born.)
“And you know what?” I said, unable to contain my disgust. “After the game, a whole bunch of idiots came out and rioted in Vancouver.” I explained how they smashed windows and set fire to cars and that several people got hurt.
Boychild didn’t say much, but looked pensive. He didn’t have the benefit of watching the compelling coverage of the unfolding mayhem on the late news the night before.
Later that day, as I walked down Wilson Street to meet the kids after school, I noticed the landscapers had returned to replace some of the private cement walkways in front of a few homes. The forms were still in place and the cement still looked dark and wet. There were no workers in sight.
There is something about wet cement that triggers a primal urge, don’t you find? Doesn’t it make you want to draw pictures or carve your initials or leave your mark somehow? Well, that’s what I was thinking as I escorted a small throng of little boys and one Girlchild back along the same route, questioning the wisdom of leaving unattended cement along a school zone.
I stood at the end of one walkway as my entourage passed, with no mishaps to report. Right behind them were four older boys. I continued walking, casting a glance over my shoulder, and sure enough they had stopped right in the danger zone and looked as if they were about to leave a legacy behind.
“Hey!” I hollered, startling my troops. “Leave that alone!” And they did.
“Mom!” Boychild scolded. “What are you doing? You don’t even know those boys!”
“So?” I said. “They were about to damage someone’s property, and I wasn’t going to stand by and let them do it.” (Yes, I know. Next I’ll be standing on my front porch shrieking, “Hey-you-kids-get-offa-my-lawn!”)
“But you’re not the boss of them!” Boychild insisted.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “When you see someone about to do something wrong, you should speak up.”
I don’t think the message really resonated until later that day when the stories about the riots were recapped on the 6 o’clock news. “Look,” I said to Boychild. “Come and see what these people did in Vancouver.”
He watched with rapt attention. “Those cars that are burning,” I said, “belong to people like us. What if someone had set our car on fire? That’s why you have to speak up when you see people doing bad things.”
I know. Carving your initials in cement is not the same in scope as torching a car, but teaching respect for other people’s property has to start somewhere. And, yes, I realize that not every person who has carved his or her initials in a sidewalk ends up looting and pillaging and committing arson.
It does seem to come back to respect: for people – their feelings and their authority – and for property – their own and other people’s; not to mention taking responsibility for one’s actions. It’s easy to blame “mob mentality” for what happened in Vancouver, I suppose, but that seems awfully convenient when we all have our very own brains to tell us when we’re doing something bad.
After watching the coverage and seeing the flames and the injuries and the craziness of it all, we all agreed that, yes, it was bad.
Maybe it was about hockey and maybe it wasn’t – it depends on who you ask. Whether it all comes out in the wash or not remains to be seen, but is sure is a nasty stain.
Boychild didn’t comment on the part of the coverage that showed a man yelling at looters to stop. They then swarmed him and starting beating him. I hate the thought of having to explain that sometimes the “hey-you-kids-get-offa-my-lawn” approach doesn’t always end well.
Ah, parenting. Not for the weak.
Published in The Perth Courier, June 23/11
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Past Deadline: Moments Turn to Years
Rats.
Here I’ve gone and let it happen . I’ve let time slip away. I knew it was happening. I’m not good at living in the moment – I’m always jumping ahead to the next step. So as those moments slipped by, they turned around, waved, and said, “You’re going to regret those times you said, ‘I can’t right now because....’”
This thought occurred to me on Friday, several hours after attending our daughter’s graduation from Senior Kindergarten. Maybe some of this was magnified by the fact I also attended, the night before, the convocation ceremony for graduates of the Perth campus of Algonquin College (where I teach part time).
The graduations represent two ends of a spectrum. People who have been parents for a lot longer than I have say the time in between passes in a flash.
It sure does.
As you can imagine, Kindergarten graduation is a Really Big Deal. It requires the perfect dress, the perfect braids, a fruit tray and a minor shoe crisis moments before departure. One of the cool things Girlchild’s teacher does in the ceremony (she did it with Boychild’s class, too) is announce with each diploma what that student wants to be when he or she grows up. The answers are wide ranging – lots of ballet dancers and police officers and teachers and “just like Dads” and farmers.
Girlchild indicated she wants to be a doctor. This was quite a surprise to us. I certainly hope she stops licking doorknobs and gets really good at washing her hands before then. Or maybe she wants to be a doctor so she can go on a quest to kill the germs that did us in this year.
Incidentally, she has already changed her mind on this. Apparently she actually wants to be a nurse. Either way we figure she will be handy to have around. Perhaps she will be able to patch up her brother, who indicated in Kindergarten that he wanted to be a dirt bike racer. Boychild has since decided he doesn’t know what he wants to be, although computer game tester has been suggested.
That future seems so far away, but it also seems like only a few months ago that I was rocking babies to sleep and breathing in that indescribable newborn scent. I do think about this when I am walking with the kids to and from school and my youngest still lets me hold her hand.
Aw.
I remember when the kids were babies how every stage had its pros and cons. There were always some really great things about newborns (e.g. they tend to be very portable), but also some not-so-fun stuff (e.g. they poo a lot and don’t often sleep through the night).
And then there’s the old saying about how we spend the first several years of our kids’ lives teaching them how to walk and talk, and then when they become teenagers we wish they would sit down and shut up.
Sometimes those fleeting moments of childhood go by so fast it’s hard to recognize them for what they are. Sometimes you’d rather not recognize them, such as when your five-year-old gets ornery and says she’s “not even going to love you on Mothers’ Day.”
I see it as a sign I am doing my job. Apparently I am the Meanest Mother Ever™ because, time and again, I put my foot down at bedtime, which leads to unrest. And by that I mean “turbulence” and “strife,” not “unrested children.” I could live with less turbulence and strife at bedtime, though.
So what has all this reflection taught me? Nothing. I have always known how important it is to live in the moment; to live every moment as if it were your last; to savour your children’s childhoods; to grab life by the horns and yadda yadda yadda. But it doesn’t always happen.
I could use a clone.
As Girlchild prepares to leave Kindergarten behind and move on to Grade 1, and as Boychild edges away from those primary years, one thing is for sure. Time just goes faster and faster.
Before I know it, someone will be asking for car keys.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!
Published in The Perth Courier, June 16/11
Here I’ve gone and let it happen . I’ve let time slip away. I knew it was happening. I’m not good at living in the moment – I’m always jumping ahead to the next step. So as those moments slipped by, they turned around, waved, and said, “You’re going to regret those times you said, ‘I can’t right now because....’”
This thought occurred to me on Friday, several hours after attending our daughter’s graduation from Senior Kindergarten. Maybe some of this was magnified by the fact I also attended, the night before, the convocation ceremony for graduates of the Perth campus of Algonquin College (where I teach part time).
The graduations represent two ends of a spectrum. People who have been parents for a lot longer than I have say the time in between passes in a flash.
It sure does.
As you can imagine, Kindergarten graduation is a Really Big Deal. It requires the perfect dress, the perfect braids, a fruit tray and a minor shoe crisis moments before departure. One of the cool things Girlchild’s teacher does in the ceremony (she did it with Boychild’s class, too) is announce with each diploma what that student wants to be when he or she grows up. The answers are wide ranging – lots of ballet dancers and police officers and teachers and “just like Dads” and farmers.
Girlchild indicated she wants to be a doctor. This was quite a surprise to us. I certainly hope she stops licking doorknobs and gets really good at washing her hands before then. Or maybe she wants to be a doctor so she can go on a quest to kill the germs that did us in this year.
Incidentally, she has already changed her mind on this. Apparently she actually wants to be a nurse. Either way we figure she will be handy to have around. Perhaps she will be able to patch up her brother, who indicated in Kindergarten that he wanted to be a dirt bike racer. Boychild has since decided he doesn’t know what he wants to be, although computer game tester has been suggested.
That future seems so far away, but it also seems like only a few months ago that I was rocking babies to sleep and breathing in that indescribable newborn scent. I do think about this when I am walking with the kids to and from school and my youngest still lets me hold her hand.
Aw.
I remember when the kids were babies how every stage had its pros and cons. There were always some really great things about newborns (e.g. they tend to be very portable), but also some not-so-fun stuff (e.g. they poo a lot and don’t often sleep through the night).
And then there’s the old saying about how we spend the first several years of our kids’ lives teaching them how to walk and talk, and then when they become teenagers we wish they would sit down and shut up.
Sometimes those fleeting moments of childhood go by so fast it’s hard to recognize them for what they are. Sometimes you’d rather not recognize them, such as when your five-year-old gets ornery and says she’s “not even going to love you on Mothers’ Day.”
I see it as a sign I am doing my job. Apparently I am the Meanest Mother Ever™ because, time and again, I put my foot down at bedtime, which leads to unrest. And by that I mean “turbulence” and “strife,” not “unrested children.” I could live with less turbulence and strife at bedtime, though.
So what has all this reflection taught me? Nothing. I have always known how important it is to live in the moment; to live every moment as if it were your last; to savour your children’s childhoods; to grab life by the horns and yadda yadda yadda. But it doesn’t always happen.
I could use a clone.
As Girlchild prepares to leave Kindergarten behind and move on to Grade 1, and as Boychild edges away from those primary years, one thing is for sure. Time just goes faster and faster.
Before I know it, someone will be asking for car keys.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!
Published in The Perth Courier, June 16/11
Past Deadline: Running Lessons Learned
Disclaimer: This column is about running, but is in no way, shape or form to be considered the be-all and end-all of advice on this topic. This is, I know, unusual, because my advice is generally taken as the gospel.
Ahem.
The Perth Kilt Run is edging closer. Gulp. I have a very complicated training program, which is basically this: run as much as you can before the big day so you don’t look like an idiot on July 2.
A friend of mine just completed a marathon, which I think is amazing because it requires so much commitment and training for months before the 42K race. I am not that person. I tend to avoid races, preferring to run in solitude (so fewer people can hear me gasping for breath). As admirable as it is, running a marathon is just not on my bucket list.
I am quite likely one of the world’s most amateurish runners. I have great shoes, but beyond that there isn’t much evidence of me having any sort of clue whatsoever about what I am doing.
I don’t seek professional advice. I stretch – but probably not correctly. I don’t know about the best fuels for pre- and post-run, although I did read something somewhere that said chocolate milk is good to drink after a run because it helps with recovery. It sounded good, so sometimes I do. After all, if it’s in print, it must be true. Like this here column (please see disclaimer above).
Other than the occasional advice about ornery muscles and working up to longer runs that I have received from the friend (and her husband) who got me started on this crazy running jag, I really am not knowledgeable on this subject. Sometimes I think I’m actually just a big faker.
I have, however, made a few poignant observations during this running journey of mine that I would like to share. Some of it is stark common sense that proves I am alive. As for the rest, well, remember that disclaimer (above).
Top 10 things I have learned about running:
1. If running at 7:30 p.m. fits best into your schedule, then make sure you finish eating supper at least one hour before or else be prepared to feel like death. It’s like the swimming rule.
2. Before a run, consider eating a smaller portion rather than enough for two hog-like people. Duh.
3. Avoid Chinese food before running. Seriously.
4. Although studies show a glass of red wine with supper can be good for you, it does not go super well with running. You probably shouldn’t drink and run. Hic.
5. Similarly, tanking up on coffee all day, when you know you might run that night, will suck all of the moisture out of your body. It will also make you feel jittery and death-ish.
6. Here’s a thought! On days you plan to run, drink more water in the afternoon and around suppertime! Hydration is good! Duh.
7. Once you have built up to a longer run (and for this runner that means anything more than 5K), try not to stop. It’s not that walking is for sissies; it’s that whole “a body in motion” thing. If you stop, even to sip water, it’s harder to go again.
8. Speaking of water, too much during a run can make you feel like death. The more this runner sips, the barfier she feels. Try to avoid the water unless you start to feel tingly. Tingly can mean thirsty.
9. Once you get to know how long it takes you, on average, to run a certain distance, try to avoid checking your watch. The “how much farther” mental game is a killer. Conjugate French verbs in your head instead. Or create plot lines for the Great Canadian Novel. Or try to remember Hamlet’s soliloquy. Whatever.
10. Don’t expect to lose weight by running. That was a funny joke when I started out. Hahaha.
Ah, the running journey. It is sometimes a painful one or merely uncomfortable (see Chinese food, above). It is also rewarding, though, and after two years of it I have almost decided that I even like it.
I’ll keep you posted on that.
Published June 9/11
Ahem.
The Perth Kilt Run is edging closer. Gulp. I have a very complicated training program, which is basically this: run as much as you can before the big day so you don’t look like an idiot on July 2.
A friend of mine just completed a marathon, which I think is amazing because it requires so much commitment and training for months before the 42K race. I am not that person. I tend to avoid races, preferring to run in solitude (so fewer people can hear me gasping for breath). As admirable as it is, running a marathon is just not on my bucket list.
I am quite likely one of the world’s most amateurish runners. I have great shoes, but beyond that there isn’t much evidence of me having any sort of clue whatsoever about what I am doing.
I don’t seek professional advice. I stretch – but probably not correctly. I don’t know about the best fuels for pre- and post-run, although I did read something somewhere that said chocolate milk is good to drink after a run because it helps with recovery. It sounded good, so sometimes I do. After all, if it’s in print, it must be true. Like this here column (please see disclaimer above).
Other than the occasional advice about ornery muscles and working up to longer runs that I have received from the friend (and her husband) who got me started on this crazy running jag, I really am not knowledgeable on this subject. Sometimes I think I’m actually just a big faker.
I have, however, made a few poignant observations during this running journey of mine that I would like to share. Some of it is stark common sense that proves I am alive. As for the rest, well, remember that disclaimer (above).
Top 10 things I have learned about running:
1. If running at 7:30 p.m. fits best into your schedule, then make sure you finish eating supper at least one hour before or else be prepared to feel like death. It’s like the swimming rule.
2. Before a run, consider eating a smaller portion rather than enough for two hog-like people. Duh.
3. Avoid Chinese food before running. Seriously.
4. Although studies show a glass of red wine with supper can be good for you, it does not go super well with running. You probably shouldn’t drink and run. Hic.
5. Similarly, tanking up on coffee all day, when you know you might run that night, will suck all of the moisture out of your body. It will also make you feel jittery and death-ish.
6. Here’s a thought! On days you plan to run, drink more water in the afternoon and around suppertime! Hydration is good! Duh.
7. Once you have built up to a longer run (and for this runner that means anything more than 5K), try not to stop. It’s not that walking is for sissies; it’s that whole “a body in motion” thing. If you stop, even to sip water, it’s harder to go again.
8. Speaking of water, too much during a run can make you feel like death. The more this runner sips, the barfier she feels. Try to avoid the water unless you start to feel tingly. Tingly can mean thirsty.
9. Once you get to know how long it takes you, on average, to run a certain distance, try to avoid checking your watch. The “how much farther” mental game is a killer. Conjugate French verbs in your head instead. Or create plot lines for the Great Canadian Novel. Or try to remember Hamlet’s soliloquy. Whatever.
10. Don’t expect to lose weight by running. That was a funny joke when I started out. Hahaha.
Ah, the running journey. It is sometimes a painful one or merely uncomfortable (see Chinese food, above). It is also rewarding, though, and after two years of it I have almost decided that I even like it.
I’ll keep you posted on that.
Published June 9/11
Friday, June 10, 2011
Past Deadline: Stop Licking Doorknobs
Warning: this column is icky.
The winter and spring of 2008 was horrible. Boychild was in Senior Kindergarten and for some reason that year he seemed to pick up every germ going. We dealt with antibiotics, probiotics and every biotic you can think of. Strep throat and Barfies were the highlights. I was losing my mind.
After a reprieve of several years with just the standard fare of occasional ickies in the winter, 2011 – the year Girlchild is in Senior Kindergarten, coincidentally – has come along and totally kicked our butts.
I am losing my mind again.
I am starting to think that my children go to school and lick doorknobs. Or, possibly, I am just The Worst Mother Ever. Whatever the reason, this year has left me with a pretty major complex about keeping my children healthy.
The kids have had so many germs this winter and spring that I have completely lost track of what has come and gone through this house. Groom-boy and I have been relatively unscathed, fortunately, unless you count the stress of trying to figure out who will look after sick kids whilst we are working.
I think we both had the Thing With the Cough, though. That was a fun one. It was one of the ailments that afflicted our short people early in the season. It started out innocently enough – as a cold – but it came with a cough that never seemed to go away. For weeks there was coughing. It sounded like a TB ward – not that I know firsthand what that sounds like.
That was the ailment that got shared with the grown-ups. After all, when one coughs for weeks and weeks, one starts to get lazy and forgets to cough into one’s elbow, thus spreading the Joy throughout the abode.
The Thing With The Cough was tricky, too, because for some people it turned into such nasties as pneumonia or bronchitis. Just ask Nanny. Coincidentally, she got saddled with looking after certain afflicted short people by times. Poor Nanny.
The rest of the horrible winter featured an array of ailments, such as The Thing With The Fever, the Barfies, The Sore Tummy Thing Sans Barfies and, most recently, The Thing With a Fever that Makes You Tired with a Sore Throat. Oh, and I musn’t forget pink eye. Three times for Girlchild and once for Boychild.
“Stop licking doorknobs!” we screeched while doling out vitamins. “Don’t rub your eyes!” we’d shout. “Wash your hands!” we beseeched. “Go to sleep so you can get rid of these things,” we hollered (keeping the swear words carefully in our heads).
My children will never receive a perfect attendance award at school. Not only that, but they couldn’t even coordinate things so they were both off at the same time – they always tag teamed the bugs. Just to keep it interesting, they brought home a wide variety of new and different germs.
Last week was particularly fun. As May steamrolls into June, one would think we’d be past the point of all these stupid germs. I suppose, though, when it is almost constantly raining (or at least seems so), that keeps people inside more than usual in the spring, which gives them ample opportunity to lick doorknobs.
I lived in fear as I heard tales of the latest afflictions circulating around schools and dance classes. There seemed to be a Thing With A Fever that Makes You Tired on the move simultaneously with another round of the incorrigible Barfies.
“Surely we have had those things already,” I thought. “Surely we are already immune to these stupid germs.”
Sure enough, though, Girlchild was felled by The Thing With a Fever that Makes You Tired with a Sore Throat thrown in. And it was the week of her dance recital – the culmination of a year of classes.
Sigh.
I kept her home for the first performance, but she recovered in time for the second. Meanwhile other little dancers were succumbing to the Barfies.
Horrible season, please end!
On the weekend I sprayed the entire house, its contents and the children with Lysol™ and covered them with plastic wrap. The bubble will be installed over the house this week.
Okay. Not really. But I thought about it.
Published in The Perth Courier, June 2/11
The winter and spring of 2008 was horrible. Boychild was in Senior Kindergarten and for some reason that year he seemed to pick up every germ going. We dealt with antibiotics, probiotics and every biotic you can think of. Strep throat and Barfies were the highlights. I was losing my mind.
After a reprieve of several years with just the standard fare of occasional ickies in the winter, 2011 – the year Girlchild is in Senior Kindergarten, coincidentally – has come along and totally kicked our butts.
I am losing my mind again.
I am starting to think that my children go to school and lick doorknobs. Or, possibly, I am just The Worst Mother Ever. Whatever the reason, this year has left me with a pretty major complex about keeping my children healthy.
The kids have had so many germs this winter and spring that I have completely lost track of what has come and gone through this house. Groom-boy and I have been relatively unscathed, fortunately, unless you count the stress of trying to figure out who will look after sick kids whilst we are working.
I think we both had the Thing With the Cough, though. That was a fun one. It was one of the ailments that afflicted our short people early in the season. It started out innocently enough – as a cold – but it came with a cough that never seemed to go away. For weeks there was coughing. It sounded like a TB ward – not that I know firsthand what that sounds like.
That was the ailment that got shared with the grown-ups. After all, when one coughs for weeks and weeks, one starts to get lazy and forgets to cough into one’s elbow, thus spreading the Joy throughout the abode.
The Thing With The Cough was tricky, too, because for some people it turned into such nasties as pneumonia or bronchitis. Just ask Nanny. Coincidentally, she got saddled with looking after certain afflicted short people by times. Poor Nanny.
The rest of the horrible winter featured an array of ailments, such as The Thing With The Fever, the Barfies, The Sore Tummy Thing Sans Barfies and, most recently, The Thing With a Fever that Makes You Tired with a Sore Throat. Oh, and I musn’t forget pink eye. Three times for Girlchild and once for Boychild.
“Stop licking doorknobs!” we screeched while doling out vitamins. “Don’t rub your eyes!” we’d shout. “Wash your hands!” we beseeched. “Go to sleep so you can get rid of these things,” we hollered (keeping the swear words carefully in our heads).
My children will never receive a perfect attendance award at school. Not only that, but they couldn’t even coordinate things so they were both off at the same time – they always tag teamed the bugs. Just to keep it interesting, they brought home a wide variety of new and different germs.
Last week was particularly fun. As May steamrolls into June, one would think we’d be past the point of all these stupid germs. I suppose, though, when it is almost constantly raining (or at least seems so), that keeps people inside more than usual in the spring, which gives them ample opportunity to lick doorknobs.
I lived in fear as I heard tales of the latest afflictions circulating around schools and dance classes. There seemed to be a Thing With A Fever that Makes You Tired on the move simultaneously with another round of the incorrigible Barfies.
“Surely we have had those things already,” I thought. “Surely we are already immune to these stupid germs.”
Sure enough, though, Girlchild was felled by The Thing With a Fever that Makes You Tired with a Sore Throat thrown in. And it was the week of her dance recital – the culmination of a year of classes.
Sigh.
I kept her home for the first performance, but she recovered in time for the second. Meanwhile other little dancers were succumbing to the Barfies.
Horrible season, please end!
On the weekend I sprayed the entire house, its contents and the children with Lysol™ and covered them with plastic wrap. The bubble will be installed over the house this week.
Okay. Not really. But I thought about it.
Published in The Perth Courier, June 2/11
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